


The Farmhand and the Smuggler

by CaptainDog



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Character Swap, Canon-Typical Violence, Cis Han Solo, Han wields the legacy saber, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Trans Luke Skywalker, alternate universe - occupation swap, legacy saber
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2019-10-30 16:29:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17832089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainDog/pseuds/CaptainDog
Summary: The twin suns of the Outer Rim world Tatooine bake down on a farmhand as he works the equipment of a moisture farm. That is, until two strange droids appear out of the desert and propel him into a wider galaxy. No, not that farmhand.A smuggler returns to Tatooine, looking for a job. He finds one in a hick, an old man, and a couple of droids looking for discreet passage to Alderaan. No, not that smuggler.





	1. The Farmhand

**Author's Note:**

> Everybody's doing Prince Luke swaps. Don't get me wrong, I eat that shit up. But this is a swap I haven't seen yet, and thought I could have some fun with. In which Han is the farmhand, and Luke's the galaxy-traveling smuggler. 
> 
> I don't have an outline for this, just plot and character beats I want to hit. I'm not sure how far I'm going to take it. But I'm going to do my best to make it different enough from the original trilogy so as to make it worthwhile. 
> 
> Tags and rating subject to addition/change. Hell, the title might change.

Checking the ranch’s perimeter is usually an undesirable job. If anyone can help it, they send a droid or one of the new recruits that are only passing through for the season. But Han’s found that he doesn’t mind it. For one thing, the Larses offer him a little bonus for doing it, even though they don’t have a lot to spare. They’re not the Darklighters, after all.

 

The perimeter check is done in the late afternoon, just before dusk when it becomes too risky to venture out that far. The air’s cooled a little, but the suns have baked their heat into the sand so it hardly matters. The risk of Tusken raider attacks is higher than average. But Han can handle a little danger for extra credits. And he likes the quiet. Besides, he carries an expandable truncheon, just in case.

 

Tatooinians aren’t a particularly talkative folk, and moisture farm workers are no exception. Sometimes, Han actually wishes he had someone to talk to. But the noise of the droids, the evaporators, the siphons, and the purifying tanks are dizzying. It’s hard to even think. But the desert is so flat and vast that noise just evaporates, along with every drop of sweat that hits the sand.

 

Han glances up at the sky as he walks. He knows better than to look directly at either of the suns, but the color of the horizon tells him how much time he has to finish his chore. It’s idiocy to try to rush; one will only dehydrate and succumb to fatigue . So Han takes it at a leisurely pace. He takes a canteen, a quarter full of water, the rest of his ration for the day. His supplies fit neatly in belt pouches, but Han knows the weight will start to make him ache by the time he returns to the homestead. It’s fine. It’ll just help him sleep more soundly through the night. He’s used to it by now. He sings Old Corellian shanties to himself as he walks. The harsh, hot wind takes the lyrics right from his lips, keeping the songs their little secret.

 

“Hey, buddy,” Han says when he finally reaches the outpost. The tower of pipes and sensors doesn’t respond. He tries and fails to whistle while he checks the meters for temperatures, moisture levels, and power usage. All is normal, like every day before this. Plenty of stuff breaks down all the time here, but for whatever reason, a bunch of sensors bolted to a metal pole manage to function no matter what else is broken.

 

Something glints in the distance, catching Han’s eye. Closer to town, it wouldn’t be worth noting. In the bright suns, plenty of things appear shiny from a distance. But from here, Han only ever sees dark smudges; sand people or banthas (or both). He lifts his binoculars and focuses them. He still can’t quite make it out, but it seems to be a human figure, accompanied by a droid, heading his way. They can probably see the outpost, if not Han himself. Still holding the binocs up with one hand, he puts the other on the handle of his belted truncheon. If the person traversing the dunes doesn’t collapse from heat exhaustion, they’re going to be here sooner rather than later. Friend, foe, or neither? The humanoid waves their arms in the air; they’ve spotted Han. Marooned in the dune sea.

 

There doesn’t seem to be much chance this is some malicious trick. That’s something Han appreciates about Tatooine: plenty of people are out to get you, but they don’t pretend to be your friend first. Except for the Hutts, maybe, but he steers well clear of Jabba, like any sensible hick.

 

Han himself has needed help surviving out here. Folk on Tatooine aren’t known for being kind, but they’re not heartless. He waves a hand.

 

The approaching figure pauses, though their dome-topped droid companion trundles on. They cock their whole upper body stiffly to the side. They wave their arms again and Han waves back. The figure hurries forward with renewed enthusiasm.

 

Strangely, the figure continues to glint in the evening suns-light. Han strains his eyes and finally realizes – they’re a droid too. Not a type common here, and a pretty old model. It’s shiny despite the flurries of sand, though, so someone must have been caring for it.

 

Han leans against the post while he waits for the two droids to make it to him. He’s got a lot of questions. He just hopes it’s worth his while, rescuing stranded robots.

 

They get close enough that Han can hear the humanoid one rambling in Basic. It has a posh accent, the kind Han associates with Imperials and Core Worlders. Not a great sign. But it’s words are anything but threatening.

 

“Oh, Artoo, we’re saved! Thank the maker! You see, I _told_ you this was the right direction-”

 

The other droid, a tripedal astromech, spurts a flurry of rude Binary at its companion.

 

“I say! Is that really you you behave in front of our rescuer?”

 

Han pushes off of the pole and closes the distance between them. The astromech hangs back. It’s hard to read that kind of droid’s expression, but if Han had to guess, he’d say it’s wary. Fair enough.

 

“Lost, huh?” Han says by way of greeting.

 

“Yes, terribly so. I don’t know _what_ we’d have done if you hadn’t been out here. I’m not even sure what planet we’re on.”

 

Now that’s interesting. It’s not unheard of for some droids to get a mind of their own and leave their work behind them. Usually, these escaped droids get unearthed years later in sandstorms, joints gummed up by sand and systems long failed. How did these two get here without even knowing where they were? People tend not to come all the way out here by mistake.

 

The astromech burbles.

 

“Tatooine! But that’s the Outer Rim!”

 

So the little guy knows where they are. The taller, golden-shelled one might be better at human communication, but its friend seems to run the show. They’re clearly a long way from home.

 

“Yeah, Tatooine. You’re just outside Anchorhead.”

 

That doesn’t seem to mean much to Goldenrod. Instead, he turns back to Han, all proper manners.

 

“How rude, I haven’t introduced myself. I am See Threepio, human-cyborg relations. And this is my counterpart, Artoo Deetoo.”

 

Counterpart, huh? Han doesn’t know a lot about droids, but he wonders if it’s possible for them to marry each other. These two seem like an old couple.

 

“I’m Han. You’re on the Lars’ moisture farm.”

 

“And you are the owner?”

 

Han snorts. “No, I just work here.” He frowns at them. “Where did you come from, exactly? You’re obviously not local.”

 

“Oh dear, I do hope we can fit in.”

 

“Is there anyone looking for you?” 

 

“Oh, I’m sure of it, if any of them survive. Our masters will be lost without us.”

 

The astromech – R2D2 – cuts him off with a quick flurry of beeps and whirs. So they’re hiding something.

 

“Now, Artoo, don’t talk like that! I’m sure they’ll miss us terribly. We perform essential functions. And how can you expect him to help us if we don’t tell him anything?” C3PO tilts his head placatingly to Han. “I apologize for Artoo, Master Han. He really can be ungrateful.”

 

“Don’t worry about it. But how do you think I can help you? I can’t get you back home.”

 

“Frankly, I’m not sure where home is. I don’t expect we’ll see our previous masters again. Perhaps there’s work for us here.”

 

Han looks at them dubiously. “Guess that depends. We can use the astromech, but you’re what, a protocol droid?”  


“It’s my primary function, sir!”

 

Great. Really, the last thing anyone around here needs.

 

“I’m fluent in over six million forms of communication.”

 

“...Bocce?”

 

“Why, yes! It’s like a second language to me.”

 

Beru’s been wanting a translator for Bocce. He may as well bring them back, clean them up, and see if he can’t get some kind of finder’s fee from his bosses. It’ll be cheaper for the Larses than going through the Jawas, so why not?

 

“You might be some use after all. Come on, I’ll take you back with me and get you cleaned up. You don’t want to be out here past dark.”

 

“Oh my.”

 

C3PO and R2D2 follow Han as he starts towards the homestead.  Threepio, he learns quickly, is a chatterbox. And yet Han still doesn’t learn anything useful about them. 

 

“I don’t believe I’ve ever been somewhere so hot. I feel as if my wiring might melt. Is it always like this here?”

 

“Pretty much. We get a true rainstorm every hundred years or so.”

 

“Every hundred! I say. It’s a wonder there’s any civilization here at all. Artoo and I walked for...well, I’m embarrassed to admit I lost track of how many kilometers. We didn’t see a single sign of life.”

 

Han feels he might kill Goldenrod before they make it back.

 

“You had to come from somewhere. How did you get on this dust heap?”

 

“We were aboard a ship. A transport vessel with our masters. I’m afraid we were boarded and attacked! Can you imagine? Oh, it was dreadful… But fortunately, we managed to take an escape pod and ended up here.”

 

What in all the hells? How did two unimportant droids get into an escape pod and not the organics onboard? There’s been no evidence of any crash landings nearby. One might go unnoticed, but not more. It seems these droids are the only escapees. Had someone  _put_ them in an escape pod? Han wonders if he should ask for more details. Like who exactly their masters are, and who attacked them. They’re not Imperial droids, that’s for sure. 

 

He decides it’s better not to know too much.

 

Both droids quiet down for the rest of the walk, thank the stars. That is, until they reach the cluster of domed, sunken structures that make up the Lars homestead. Then Threepio is back to commenting about how quaint it is.  One worker still hasn’t turned in for the night, but they’re clearly packing up to head home. Han can’t see who it is past the scarves they wear to protect their face from the suns, but he waves anyway. The worker gives him a nod.

 

“You wait here,” Han tells the droids, and then goes to knock at the door of the main dome. Beru answers. 

 

“Han!” she says. “Is something the matter?”

 

“Ma’am,” he says in greeting, tipping his head to her. “No, I don’t think so. Not with the outpost, anyway. Found something interesting while I was out there, though. Couple of orphaned droids.”

 

“Droids? Are they functional?”

 

“Yep. Came wandering through the dunes. An astromech and a protocol droid. He says he speaks Bocce.”

 

“Really?” Beru raises her eyebrows, intrigued. “Let me get Owen. He’ll want to take a look.” 

 

Han leans against a support wall while he waits. He glances back and gives a thin-lipped partial smile to Artoo and Threepio. A few moments later, Beru returns with her husband.

 

Owen Lars is a practical, no-nonsense man. He doesn’t say much and his expressions reveal even less. Han had worked here for almost a year before he realized that Owen actually liked him. He ambles over to the droids with Han. Threepio straightens to attention, quick to introduce himself and his counterpart. The light is dim now, so Owen pulls out a  flashlight to examine the droids. They claim to be orphaned, but they have to be sure there’s no marks tying them to a competing moisture farm. The Larses can’t afford a theft dispute. Finally, Owen clicks the light off and stands back, nodding. 

 

“They check out. Good find, Solo.” He claps Han on the back. “Why don’t you use the oil bath, get them cleaned up? Then you can turn in.”

 

Han nods. “Uh, sir...I was wondering-”

 

Owen waves a hand. “You’ll be compensated, don’t worry. You did a good job today. I wouldn’t want to lose you to the Darklighters for not paying you right.”

 

Han actually smiles. “Thanks. Come on, you two.” He gestures to Threepio and Artoo.

 

Han gets C3PO into the oil bath first, hoping to cut down on any more whining about sand jamming up his joints. While he soaks, Han starts to scrub the worst of the dirt clogging R2D2’s metal plates. He notes that while the astromech’s circuits are in pretty good condition, his exoskeleton has been roughened up a bit.

 

“You two must have taken some hits, huh? Lots of carbon scoring here.”

 

“Oh, yes,” Threepio says, now rising from the oil bath. “After all we’ve been through, it’s a wonder we’re in such good condition. What with the Rebellion and all.”

 

Han’s hand stops scrubbing grime away with a clump of steel wool. Now there is a real answer. “The Rebellion?” He keeps his tone light.

 

Artoo beeps and Han doesn’t need to know Binary to figure out he’s telling Threepio to shut it.

 

“Indeed. We’ve been through several battles.”

 

“I’d ask whose side you’re on, but you don’t have Imperial paintjobs. Don’t worry, I don’t get involved with the Empire if I can help it. And the graysuits aren’t known for paying up on their rewards.” He directs this at Artoo, who seems the most suspicious of him.

 

The R2 unit is quiet for a moment, and then his holo-projector lights up.  Han stumbles back onto his ass, watching as a young woman in a flowing  hooded  dress materializes out of the blue light. She begins to speak. 

 

“General Kenobi. Years ago, you served my father in the Clone Wars. Now he begs you to help him in his struggle against the Empire.” 

 

Well, a lot makes sense now. Han’s stomach clenches. This is big. He’s in danger just having these droids here. What if the Empire knows about them? They’ll definitely come searching, and Imperial searches aren’t gentle.

 

The woman continues. She begs without begging, containing deeper emotion with a firm dignity. She’s beautiful, but intimidating. Han imagines she’s tall, though it’s impossible to tell from the holo.

 

“I regret that I am unable to present my father’s request to you in person, but my ship has fallen under attack and I’m afraid my mission to bring you to Alderaan has failed.”

 

The image flickers, the woman going staticky for a moment. The sound glitches, momentarily repeating “ _D-d-d-d-d-d-d-_ ” until the droid manages to resume the recording. 

 

“This is our most desperate hour. Help me, Obi Wan Kenobi. You’re my only hope.”

 

The hologram flickers and then extinguishes.

 

“Well,” Han says slowly “that explains a lot.”

 

“Artoo! When did you record this!” C3PO seems generally clueless. Fair enough; Han sure as hell wouldn’t trust him with a secret. He’s obviously not programmed to be discreet.

 

“So, what? You expect me to help you?”

 

Artoo beeps at him, rocking on his legs and twisting his domed head around.

 

“Yeah, I don’t speak that. Goldie, you mind translating?”

 

“My designation is-”

 

“Yeah, yeah. Please?”

 

“Well, all right. He says that it would be worth your while.”

 

Han snorts. “Getting mixed up in the Rebellion? Not likely.”

 

Threepio translates for Artoo’s next stream of Binary. “The person in that holo was Leia Organa, crown princess of Alderaan. And the man she’s referring to is a decorated general. They’ll pay you well for our safe retrieval.”

 

Han’s still skeptical, but what else can he do? The droids obviously can’t stay here. They’re too much of a liability. He rubs his chin, thinking.  He’ll definitely lose his job if he steals the droids to sell off to some random Rebel sympathizer. But maybe the reward will be worth it. And if it’s not, he can probably just make up some stories about thieving rivals, or that the droids broke down, or something. He’s talked himself out of worse. 

 

“I don’t know anybody named Obi Wan. But there’s a Ben Kenobi near here. Old hermit. ‘bout the age to have been an officer in the Clone Wars.”

 

Old Ben Kenobi hardly lives in luxury, but Han can see him hiding away some wealth. Old Republic gold, or something. It would explain his hermetic tendencies.

 

R2D2 beeps excitedly.

 

“I’ll take you to him tomorrow. Early, before suns-rise. It’s too dangerous to go tonight.” 

 

Artoo lets out a disappointed whistle, but appears to concede.

 

“I’m serious. You’ll just get scrapped by Jawas, or bashed apart by suspicious Sand People.”

 

Han finishes he job of cleaning them, his mind full of ideas about what tomorrow might bring. He pats Artoo’s dome when he finishes.

 

“Charge up tonight. I’ll be by in the morning. We don’t want to attract any attention.”

 

Han leaves the droids there for Owen to check on if he so chooses. he’s bone-tired. What he needs is some food, a stiff drink, and a good night’s rest. Especially if he’s gonna be up before the suns tomorrow.

 

Han’s house can’t really be called a house. Come to think of it, it can’t really be called a house, either. It’s a typical Tatooinian hut, mostly below-ground, of sandstone, mud-brick, and plaster. Not that Han’s complaining. It keeps the worst of the heat out, and insulates pretty well during the cold nights. And it’s a hell of a lot better than the basement dormitories the seasonal workers are stuck in. He’s only got one room, but it has everything he needs.

 

He’s dragging his feet by the time he stumbles down the short steps of his little rental dome. He shrugs off his poncho and brimmed hat, hanging them by the door. His belt he hangs by the cot-bed, keeping the truncheon within reach during the night. Two steps to the left, and he pulls a packet out from a cupboard, and a dusty bottle from another. He pours two fingers of the dark liquid into a cup. It’s dreadful stuff, but this isn’t enough of an occasion to pull out the Corellian whisky.  He leaves the wrappings of the tasteless ration bar on the counter to clean up later, and chews on it as he crosses back to the cot. He sits heavily, setting the drink on the cot. It’s hard enough that he doesn’t worry about it spilling as he shifts. One-handed, he tugs off his boots. There’s no point undressing further than that. He’ll fall asleep without blankets, and then wake some time in the night, freezing. At which point he’ll pull his threadbare sheet and blanket over himself and try to fall back asleep. Always the same. 

 

As he chews a gravelly lump of compressed and dehydrated grain, and then washes it down with a swallow of what the locals call Womprat Piss, his thoughts wander to the princess in the holo, and to old Ben Kenobi. He’s never properly met the old coot, just seen him when he’s come by the Larses. He knows Owen doesn’t like him; he thinks he’s dangerous. Han had never seen anything threatening about him, but he does know better than to assume anyone is safe or trustworthy out here.

 

He shakes his head. Too many conflicting thoughts, and he’ll never get to sleep. He sets an alarm for an absurdly early time and downs the rest of his drink. He washes away the taste with the last of his water ration for the day. He swirls the water around in his mouth, too tired to even get up and go to the ‘fresher to brush his teeth. The metallic, processed flavor of farmed water is pretty much permanent. That’s probably why Tatooinians season their food so aggressively. But there’s no escaping it.

 

Han lies back in his cot, staring up at the ceiling. The darkness seems to gather in the dome above him like a cloud. He can’t really see anything, but his mind supplies shapes that form out of shadow. As exhausted as he is, it’s difficult to get to sleep.

 

Han’s never wanted to get tangled up in the Rebellion. It seems like a good way to get killed if you ask him. And it attracts a lot of hero types. Han likes to think of himself as a cynic; too realistic to believe that heroes are anything but fools. But lying here in he dark, his mind wanders.  He doesn’t have to hide his thoughts from anyone, save maybe himself. 

 

He imagines he finds Obi Wan Kenobi and delivers the droids. Kenobi is a dignified older gentleman, who decides to reward Han handsomely. He pictures the credit chips pouring from a sack into his palms. Maybe some of them are even Old Republic credits. Those aren’t worth much at Imperial banks, but they’re still good in those systems the Empire hasn’t got as firm a grasp on.

 

Whatever the form, Han will finally have enough money to get off-planet. Tatooine was only ever supposed to be a rest stop before Han moved on to better things. But a Sabacc game gone south had him broke. Taking a job at a moisture farm seemed the best way to get some cash without dipping his toes into the shadier parts of Tatooine’s economy. Han’s done farm work before, anyway. But the Larses can’t pay much, and the Darklighters weren’t hiring. Han’s been trying to save up, but in the meantime, he has to eat.

 

He just needs enough for a ship. It doesn’t even have to be a good one, just so long as it has a functioning hyperdrive. Han’s determined to fly it himself. He could hire a pilot, sure, but he’s willing to wait a little longer for his own ship. He craves that freedom.

 

Closing his eyes, Han thinks of what he’ll do with his reward for the droids. The first thing will be to get a ship and fuel her up, of course. And then he’s gone. He’s leaving this dust heap behind. He thinks his first stop will be somewhere with lots of water. Hot or cold, it doesn’t matter. Somewhere with beaches. He’ll pull his boots off to dip his toes in the surf. If it’s warm enough, he’ll strip all the way down and swim. He pictures himself emerging from an ocean of this imaginary planet. A local waits for him on shore, dressed in something simple and revealing. They offer him a frosty drink. As he takes it, condensation drips between their fingers, which brush. He drinks it down, the icy beverage making him shiver. He keeps eye contact with the beautiful – but vague – local.

 

He imagines a lean, toned body spread out for him. The beach is rocky – one gets weary of sand after spending enough time here – so they’ve moved up the beach to lay down on soft grass. It’s lush and cool. He can’t decide on a gender for this lover, so he keeps his fantasy vague as he imagines undressing them completely.

 

He feels a pleasant throb between his legs, but he’s too tired to actually touch himself. He shifts his hips, but it does little. It’s fine. The desire is latent enough to ignore easily.

 

He drifts off, thinking of his imaginary lover’s blue, blue eyes.


	2. The Wizard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No turning back now. And Han's only just dipped his toe into the pool of strange and treacherous.

The Larses keep everything locked down overnight, bu t Han has most of the security codes. He takes enough early morning and late evening shifts that it’s more convenient to trust him with them. Otherwise, he’d have to wait around for Owen or Beru just to do a simple menial task. He sort of regrets betraying their trust like this, but the alternative is putting them at risk of Imperial repercussions. 

 

R2D2 and C3PO are both at charging stations when Han gets to the droid stable. There’s no light yet, save for the little illuminated bulbs on each droid. It’s creepy, frankly. Han doesn’t care much for droids, though he can’t really pu a finger on why. He just doesn’t trust them.

 

He taps on R2D2’s dome.

 

“Wakey, wakey,” he murmurs.

 

Artoo burbles quietly. Threepio, on the other hand, jerks to alertness.

 

“Good morning, Master-”

 

Han slaps a hand over C3PO’s face. “Quiet!” he hisses. “You wanna get us caught?”

 

He holds his hand there for a few moments, listening for any other sound in the room. The other droids say powered down. For good measure, he lifts a finger in front of his lips before he releases Threepio’s face.

 

“Come on. We’ve gotta be quick.”

 

He leads the droids outside. There’s only one moon still up, but it’s Chenini, the closest. Plenty of light to see by. The air is still chilled. Han shivers; it’s going to heat up fast the moment the suns start to rise, so he didn’t bother putting on his warmer jacket. H quickly ushers the droids across the packed ground to the parking area, where the Larses keep their land speeders, tractors, and their rarely-used skyhopper. Han only takes a moment to decide which vehicle he’s going to steal. 

 

The X-34 is the one Owen will miss the least. It can’t carry much cargo, and Han knows it to be prone to breaking down. Also, it’s going to be the easiest to hotwire.

 

He has to lift R2D2 into the back, which he hopes is the hardest part of today. C3PO delicately takes shotgun. Han kneels and gets to work hotwiring the speeder. Just like old times. He’s got the engine rumbling in minutes.

 

“Still got it,” he says as he slides into the seat and puts it in reverse.

 

The engine hums; Han’s not sure if it’s loud enough to wake the Larses. Even if it is, it’s too late now. He’s maneuvering across the grounds and towards the Jundland wastes faster than they could catch him. He picks up speed as the land opens up before them. Mercifully, the droids keep quiet. It’s far too early for Han to deal with conversation.

 

The terrain grows rockier as the move further and further away from the ranch. Han’s glad he has his truncheon with him, but he wishes he had a blaster. It’s been a long time since he last used one, so he might b e a lousy shot anyway. The horizon grows a fiery orange; Tatoo 1 has begun her ascent. About now, Beru will be waking to start the caf she makes for Owen and the rest of the crack-of-dawn workers. Han wonders if she’ll realize right away that something’s wrong, or if it’ll take Owen checking in on the new droids to tip them off. He wonders if anyone will come looking for him. The thought’s oddly nice, despite the circumstances. 

 

Though it’s tempting to keep watching the suns-rise – if there’s anything good to be said about Tatooine, it’s that its sunrises and sunsets are beautiful – Han keeps his eyes on the rolling hills of sand before them. He needs to pull this off as quickly as possible, which means no run-ins with scavenging Jawas, Sand People, or rabid womp rats.

 

The further they go, the less flat everything is. Why Kenobi chose to live all the way out here - especially if he’s sitting on a fortune – Han can’t guess. His hackles rise with the cliffs around them. I’s far too easy for unsavory types to hide among the boulders and crevices, waiting to ambush travelers. The wind is low, which means the noise of the X-34 isn’t drowned out. Han keeps one hand on the wheel, and the other near his belt.

 

He has to be getting close now. Natural landmarks never stay the same out here in the unforgiving, eroding wind. But Han has a good sense of distance. Though he’s never personally been to Kenobi’s home, he’s been out this way enough.

 

The animalistic,  ululating war cry is the only warning Han gets before a large, humanoid figure crashes down towards them. He shouts and swerves he vehicle as the Tusken Raider lands on the front end of it. The weight spins them, rocking the whole speeder dangerously far. Instinct takes over. Han might be a farm hand now, has been for many years, but a slum kid never forgets. He launches himself from the driver’s seat and rolls. Rough gravel scrapes him but that’s the least of his worries. He has his truncheon out and extended without even consciously realizing it. 

 

The X-34 smacks sidelong into a cliff-side and stutters to a grinding halt. The Tusken is quick enough to leap from it before meeting the same fate. The droids aren’t so lucky. Han can’t worry about them just this second, though. He crouches low, readying for the fight. The Sand Person is armed with a formidable-looking staff. They swing it at him, going for force and speed rather than a feint. Han can’t parry, so he ducks.

 

He swings low, clipping his opponent’s leg. The Tusken howls and tries to bat him away with their stick. Han’s already moving, though, darting behind to swipe at the back of the creature’s head. His truncheon connects with an awful sound, muffled only a little by the layers of cloth protecting the Tusken’s head from the elements.

 

The Tusken Raider falls first to their knees, and then to the ground. Han watches for a few moments to make sure they’re really down for the count.

 

He turns his attention back to the droids and the wrecked speeder.

 

C3PO is flailing around and fussing loudly, so he can’t be too badly hurt. It’s harder to tell with R2D2, but his dome swivels as if to say “what the hell happened?!” He seems to be a tough little droid.  Han straightens, brushes dust from his pants, and heads over to assess the damage. 

 

The speeder clearly got the worst of it. One side is crunched in, an impression of the rock face. But there’s no smoke, so it’s possible it isn’t totally wrecked.

 

“You okay?” Han asks the droids.

 

“That was just horrible!”

 

“Yeah, yeah. But is anything broken?”

 

Artoo beeps. Threepio doesn’t translate, but his tone is cheery enough that Han assumes he’s fine.

 

“I...seem to be all right,” Threepio says. “A bit shaken, but all in one piece.”

 

Han eyes Threepio’s right arm, which is hanging from is socket by a mass of wires. His shoulder must have taken the brunt of the hit. Han says nothing about it.

 

He begins to check over the X-34 when he hears footsteps. If the Tusken Raider he’d fought wasn’t a scout, there are probably more close-by. Han whirls around, truncheon back in hand.

 

He doesn’t entirely relax when he sees that it’s a human approaching. They’re wearing robes of undyed linen – a common uniform of the desert. Han can see white whiskers on the chin that emerges from the hood.

 

“Hello there,” the man says. He raises his hand to indicate a peaceful greeting, but Han can see that he has something metallic in his other hand. His accent is an odd one for these parts. It’s a core world accent, like those of Imperial officers.

 

“I was walking nearby and heard the commotion. I thought I might offer some assistance. But I can see you have the situation well in hand.”

 

He pulls his hood back to eye the unconscious – possibly dead – Sand Person.

 

“Little early for a leisurely walk,” Han comments, his attention still on the potential weapon in the old man’s hand. The man doesn’t respond, as if he didn’t hear Han’s remark. He tucks his hand into his robes and it emerges empty.

 

“Is your speeder a lost cause?”

 

“Not sure yet.”

 

“I’d offer to have a look, but I’m no great mechanic.”

 

Han shrugs. “It’s fine. It’s not your problem.”

 

“It might be.” The old man steps closer, and Han gets a better look at his face. “What brings you out here at this hour? And with a couple of droids?” The man’s expression is impish. “You’re not a thief, are you?”

 

Han’s stomach twists.

 

“Actually, I’m looking for someone. Ben Kenobi, he lives out this way. You know him?” Han’s already guessed the answer, but he wants to feel this guy out.

 

“Well of course I know him, he’s me!” Kenobi laughs. “And who might you be?”

 

Although Kenobi already seems to know more than he’s letting on, Han indulges him. “Han Solo. I work for the Larses. Came by these droids, and I thought you might know where they belong.”

 

“Oh yes? Why me?”

 

“That one,” Han points to R2D2 “is carrying a message for Obi Wan Kenobi.”

 

There’s a twinkle in Kenobi’s eye as he says “Obi Wan. Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time. A long time.”

 

Han waits, because he can see that Kenobi isn’t done. He lets him have his moment.

 

“You put it together because of the surname, of course. Perhaps thought that Obi Wan was a relation. But in fact, _I_ am Obi Wan Kenobi.” 

 

Han has to work not to roll his eyes. Kenobi is looking at him, waiting for some kind of astonishment.

 

“Is that so? Why the change?”

 

A little mollified, Kenobi says “Obi Wan is presumed dead. There are those who would hunt me down if they knew that to be false.”

 

Han isn’t sure who’s stupider: Kenobi, for thinking that changing his given name but not his off-worlder surname was an effective alias, or the people who want him dead for not figuring it out in all these years.

 

“Well, these droids are supposed to get to you. But it’s probably not a great idea to play the message in the open air. You’ve got a dome nearby, right? Help me get this thing moving, and I’ll fill you in.”

 

Kenobi isn’t entirely useless in patching the speeder up. He’s no expert, but he does as Han says and possesses more physical strength than expected for his appearance. He helps push he speeder away from he boulder it’s wedged into. Before too long, they get the engine humming, albeit labored. It’s a tight fit, getting both humans and droids into it. Han wonders if it can even withstand their weight, but Kenobi doesn’t seem bothered. He directs Han as he drives.

 

It’s a relief to get back to relatively open land. The terrain is still rocky and unforgiving, but at least there are fewer hiding spots.

 

He doesn’t see Kenobi’s adobe hut until he nearly crashes into it. It’s situated to look like just another craggy dune from a distance.

 

“Got a place to stow the speeder?” Han asks, thinking of Jawas.

 

Kenobi chuckles and shakes his head. “It’ll be fine out here. The denizens of the desert don’t bother me. They think I’m a dangerous shaman.”

 

Han doesn’t mention that a lot of the humans in town think so too.

 

He and Kenobi help the droids out of the X-34 and they all head inside. Kenobi keeps a clean, barren home. He really seems to live like some kind of monk.

 

Han takes a seat on the sofa carved from stone, the cushions doing little for his sore ass. C3PO settles next to him, and R2D2 rolls nearby. The droids don’t seem sure about Kenobi yet, but apparently they trust Han.

 

“Now, let’s see that message, shall we?” Kenobi takes a seat adjacent to Han and gestures to Artoo.

 

Artoo hesitates a moment, and then projects the holo of the woman in the pale hood. 

 

“General Kenobi. Years ago, you served my father in the Clone Wars. Now he begs you to help him in his struggle against the Empire. I regret that I am unable to present my father’s request to you in person, but my ship has fallen under attack and I’m afraid my mission to bring you to Alderaan has failed.”

 

This time, the holo doesn’t glitch. The woman keeps speaking, revealing details the astromech must have edited out when Han first saw it.

 

“I’ve placed information vital to the survival of the Rebellion into the memory systems of this Artoo unit. My father will know how to retrieve it. You must see this droid safely delivered to him on Alderaan. This is our most desperate hour. Help me, Obi Wan Kenobi. You’re my only hope.”

 

Kenobi sits back, stroking his short white beard. Han glowers at the little droid.

 

“You could have played the whole thing the first time,” he mutters. “It’s not like this information is a shock.”

 

Artoo beeps at him sheepishly. Threepio fills in.

 

“He says that it was possible you might try to turn us in to the Imperials if you knew what sort of data we had.”

 

Han sighs. “If I was gonna do that, I’d have decided to without the whole message.”

 

Artoo beeps again.

 

“He says he knows that now. You’re an honest man, Master Solo.”

 

Han feels his cheeks heat a little. He doesn’t know how to respond to that. He’s always considered himself kind of a vagabond. But he’s not heartless. The thought of turning his back on these droids, and by extension the Alderaanian resistance, turns his stomach. Hurting innocents doesn’t sit well with him. That’s why he’d never tried to get into the Imperial Academy, despite the pension for pilots – who survive – being pretty good.

 

“It seems I need to arrange passage to Alderaan,” Kenobi finally says. He betrays no real emotion. Once again, Han wonders who the hells this guy really is.

 

“Look, not to...I mean, these droids belong to my bosses. Well, they think they do, anyway. I kind of stole them to bring them to you.”

 

Kenobi raises an eyebrow at him, amused. “Out of the goodness of your heart?”

 

“ _Ha_. Um. No. See, Goldenrod here told me that she -” he gestures to Artoo, indicating the holo “is a princess. And you were a Republic General, weren’t you?”

 

“Yes.” Kenobi lets the word trail off, waiting for Han to continue.

 

“Now, I don’t want to get involved in the Rebellion. I just wanna help out and watch my own back.”

 

“I understand.” Kenobi has this smirk that gives the impression that he knows exactly what one is thinking, and he finds it rather cute indeed. “You’re asking for money.”

 

“Well, yeah. I think that’s fair. I stole from my bosses, which is definitely going to cost me my job if I can’t bring them back. Faced off against Sand People. Just to deliver these two droids for the good of the galaxy. I think that’s worth something. Maybe...enough to get me off-planet and settled somewhere else.”

 

“It’s always money,” Kenobi muses, more to himself than to Han. Han feels an argument rise in his throat, but chokes it down. He doesn’t want to insult the old weirdo and lose out on his reward. “Of course, you’ll be compensated. I can’t return the droids to you. As you’ve heard, Artoo Deetoo is carrying vital information. And I’d hate to separate them.”

 

Han can’t argue with that. Threepio is a poor compensation prize for losing the more valuable astromech. Beru can find any old droid to install a Bocce language translator into. And Kenobi’s just said he’ll pay Han. He leans forward.

 

“How much are we talking?”

 

“How about free passage off of Tatooine? And enough money to get you settled elsewhere, once we’re gone.”

 

Han frowns. “You want me to come with you?”

 

“You’re handy in a fight.” Kenobi gestures to the truncheon at Han’s belt. “Traveling alone is a risky business out here, as I’m sure you know. And I can sense that you’ll be useful in other ways.”

 

His tone isn’t quite creepy enough to make Han outright refuse. But his hackles rise. “I told you I don’t want to get involved. It sounds like you’re enlisting me for a security job. I’m just looking for a finder’s fee.”

 

“It’s your choice. Return to Owen and Beru Lars and explain what you’ve done with their droids. They’re good people; they might understand. Or, you can join me and make something more of your life than a farmer on a desert planet.”

 

Han wants to snap at him. Kenobi’s been hiding out on a desert planet, after all, and would probably have died alone here if Han hadn’t brought these droids to him. Who’s he to tell Han what his life will be like? But that’s not what’s important here. What’s important is the credits.

 

“So, you won’t pay me if I don’t come with you?”

 

Kenobi smiles wanly. “I can’t pay you. There’s no riches that come with being the last of an extinct people.”

 

Han glowers. “But you were a General. Didn’t most of the officers of the Clone Wars keep their positions once the Emperor took power? The Senators mostly kept their seats.”

 

“Not the ones who were Jedi Knights.”

 

“Bantha shit.”

 

“You don’t believe me?”

 

Han almost says no, but when he thinks about it, it’s not that far-fetched. The Empire’s gone after plenty who’ve slipped through their fingers. Everyone knows they wiped the Jedi Order out, but Han can believe that one managed to survive. His skepticism has more to do with what the Jedi actually were.

 

He shakes his head. “It’s just a hell of a reveal. So you came out here to hide, huh?”

 

“In part. I had one last mission that brought me here. But I’m afraid I failed.”

 

“What mission was that?”

 

Kenobi chuckles. “Oh, I have to keep some of my secrets. But with this information,” he extends a hand towards Artoo Deetoo “I have a chance to make up for my mistakes.”

 

“You realize I don’t have a choice here, right? If I don’t come with you, I’m ruined. And if I do, there’s a good chance I’ll get killed.”

 

“I think you’re a tougher fellow than that.”

 

“Thanks, gramps, but that doesn’t make the situation any better.”

 

Kenobi sighs. “I apologize. But I didn’t force you to steal the droids, did I? You were the one who assumed I’d have money.”

 

Han really wants to punch him. He has a point, but he’s so insufferable. Han resolves to leave his ass in the dust the moment he has enough credits and gets to a decent spaceport. But in that resolution, he realizes he’s already made his decision.

 

“Say I come with you,” he says slowly. “How long are you expecting me to stick around? When do I get paid?”

 

“As soon as we reach Alderaan. From there, you’ll be free to leave with your pockets full.”

 

Han sighs. “Fine. But we’ve got to leave soon. We’re not far enough away from the Lars homestead that they couldn’t send someone to find me here.”

 

“Agreed. Time is of the essence.”

 

Kenobi pushes himself to his feet. “Will that speeder make it to Mos Eisley?”

 

Han nods. “It’s a junker, but it’s in decent shape. Even after today’s little run-in, it should make it.”

 

“We’ll sell it once we reach Mos Eisley. That should pay for our passage off-planet.”

 

Han kind of doubts that it’s worth that much, but he has his savings, and they can barter. No doubt Kenobi will strike some deal where their transporter is paid partially, and then the rest once the Alderaanian royal family can cough up some credits.

 

Kenobi ambles to his kitchen area. Han can see him assembling canteens of water and some dried food. On cue, his own stomach rumbles. It’s well past noon now. He’s used to being hungry, but he’s glad that the old man thought of the essentials. “If you can be patient for just a few minutes,” Kenobi calls to him. “I just need to pack a few things.”

 

“Of course.”

 

Han leans back in the uncomfortable couch formed of the stone and clay of the rest of the hut and closes his eyes. He really should be panicking more about this. His whole life is getting upended, all in the space of two days. He supposes that it was about time for it. He’s been on the run before. Been a drifter. Just because moisture farming on Tatooine is the longest he’s stayed in a place since he was a teen doesn’t mean it was meant to last. He hopes that he hasn’t screwed the Larses over too badly. They’re good people, and truly good people are hard to come by, on Tatooine or elsewhere.

 

“That should do it.”

 

Han opens one eye, and it’s gummier than he’d have expected. He must have dozed off. Kenobi is standing before him, a bag slung over his shoulder. He’s wearing a cloak over his robes. Brown and unassuming, with a deep hood. Not an uncommon look for those who want to stay anonymous in these parts.

 

Han stands, stretches, and straightens his tunic. He looks Kenobi up and down. “You planning on coming back here?”

 

Kenobi smiles. There’s a sadness to it. “I doubt I’ll have that chance. The scavengers of the desert will make good use of what’s left here, I’m sure. Everything of worth I have is here, anyway.” He shrugs his shoulder to indicate his bag. Han wonders what he has of value, other than food and water.

 

“Let’s get going,” he says, heading for the door. “We’re going to have to book it if we want to reach Mos Eisley before dark.”

 

They don’t talk as they rouse the droids and file out to the speeder. Han gets into the driver’s seat to make sure it’ll still run. The hum it produces is normal, thank the stars. It’s a tight fit, especially with Kenobi’s luggage added to the mix. They compromise with C3PO holding the bag, squished up against R2D2. It’s not going to be a comfortable trip. All the more reason for Han to floor it and make it go as quickly as possible.

 


	3. The Smuggler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Mos Eisley, Kenobi's contacts are not what Han expected.

The suns hang low in the sky as they approach Mos Eisley. Something in Han’s gut coils unpleasantly; he’s got a bad feeling. Kenobi doesn’t seem bothered at all. In fact, he’d seemed downright cheerful throughout their entire uncomfortable journey. They’d been packed into the speeder, each with barely an inch of personal space. Now Han feels distinctly grimy. He wishes there was an opportunity to wash up, but knows there won’t be, except for maybe a bar ‘fresher. As if that would do any good.

 

They part ways briefly when they reach the market center. Han’s task is to sell the speeder for as much as he can. The droids split up too. To Han’s relief, Artoo comes with him. He’s not sure he likes the little astromech, but he’s not nearly as annoying as C-3PO. The protocol droid goes with Kenobi, who says he’s going to find their contact. They’re to meet in a few hours in the cantina that seems to be the main watering hole of the settlement.

 

Though it’s been years, Han’s been here before. It was his port of entry when he first arrived on Tatooine. Not much has changed. There are a few more Imperial faces than the last time, but still no stormtroopers. It’s probably just the officers who have their fingers in less legal pies making a pit stop here to get some spice or rendezvous with bounty hunters. Nothing to concern Han. Except that he takes care not to run into any of them as he scouts for a likely buyer. That’s just common sense.

 

Han hates bartering. He gets flustered. He wants it to be over with so badly that he nearly accepts deals that really are a swindle. It doesn’t help that the speeder looks worse for wear. He can crow about how well it runs until the suns are back up again, but there’s no way to get what he needs out of this thing. He has half a mind to throw R2D2 into the mix. The little droid is easily worth three times what the speeder is.

 

But he knows he can’t do that. It’s dark when he and Artoo trudge their way back to the center of town, feeling empty-handed. He’s got a sack-full more credits than he did before, but Han knows what the asking price is for transport from the Outer Rim to a Core World. He hopes that Kenobi is better at a bargain than he is.

 

To his surprise, Threepio is standing watch outside of the cantina when they get there.

 

“Ah, Master Solo! I was beginning to get worried.”

 

“Yeah, well. Can’t get here as fast on foot,” Han says grimly.

 

“Oh! Of course.”

 

Han gestures to the door. “Is the old man inside?”

 

“Yes, he’s waiting for you. Artoo, I’m afraid you’ll have to stay out here with me. This establishment has some rather bigoted policies regarding our kind.”

 

Han interprets that to mean “no droids allowed” in regular-ass Basic. He leaves the droids and heads inside. He sticks to the wall, keeping his head ducked low. He knows bars like this. You don’t want to attract attention to yourself. It’s dim, and likely not as lively as it’ll be during daylight hours, when patrons are doing more business than drinking. Now, the majority of them are just winding down from a long day of nefarious activities. The stage is occupied by a single alien with some instrument, playing a soft, jazzy tune.

 

It’s easy to spot Kenobi. Or rather, it’s easy to spot the creature he’s sitting with, and then notice the old man with it. He’s in a booth with a damn Wookiee. Han almost laughs. Harmless protocol droids aren’t allowed, but a seven foot tall Wookiee armed with a bowcaster is just fine. He makes his way to the table.

 

“Ah, Han.” Kenobi smiles pleasantly and gestures to the beast across from him. “This is Chewbacca. I’ve just been discussing terms with him.”

 

The Wookiee grunts with a feral look.

 

Han’s response is stuttering, and he knows his accent is awful, but he gives a greeting in Shyriiwook. Chewbacca blinks at him, and his expression seems to soften. Those language-learning datatapes had been worth it after all. Han had really wondered if he’d ever get a chance to use this particular one. He’s lucky enough to catch Kenobi’s look of surprise before it disappears into a bland, smug smile.

 

“So, is this our pilot?”

 

“He’s the first mate of the ship we’ll be taking. The pilot will be here shortly.”

 

Han wonders what that pilot is likely to be like. Another Wookiee? It seems likely; Wookiees aren’t known for teaming up with humans. But the odds of two Wookiees showing up on Tatooine, no doubt making their living doing smuggling work, are also pretty slim. Probably some seasoned pirate, long enough in the business and good enough at the hustle to earn the respect of someone like Chewbacca.

 

Han settles in next to Kenobi. He eyes the bandolier of bolts strung across Chewbacca’s chest.

 

“Sorry to keep you waiting.”

 

The voice is young, cheerful. Han doesn’t even look up. His companions had probably ordered drinks, and this is just their waiter delivering them. Pretty polite for this joint, though.

 

But then the young man slides in next to the Wookiee, and Han looks at him.

 

He’s dressed like a smuggler, sure enough. Boots, dark pants, shirt open at the top, battered leather jacket no doubt hiding a blaster holster. There’s a blaster strapped to his thigh, and Han can tell from the wear on the leather that it’s been pulled out at speed plenty of times. But the face – this kid can’t be any older than twenty. He has clear blue eyes and sandy blond hair that falls into them, but carefully so. There are some faint scars on his chin and cheek, but they don’t detract from his boyish good looks. He’s eying Han with an amused smirk.

 

“You’re the pilot?” Han tries not to sound too shocked.

 

“That’s right. Luke Skywalker, at your service.”

 

He doesn’t offer a hand, which is just as well. Han would have been too stunned to take it. Skywalker leans back a little, crossing his legs and resting an arm against the back of the booth seat. He sits close to Chewbacca. Han might have guessed this was because he was leaning on the Wookiee for protection, but their body language tells another story. They’re comfortable with each other.

 

“Han Solo. How old are you, kid?”

 

Skywalker rolls his eyes. “Old enough. You gonna turn down the only ride you can afford because I’ve got a baby face?”

 

That shuts Han up, but just barely. He looks to Kenobi.

 

“Luke and I have known each other for a long time. He’s the fastest star pilot in the galaxy, and he owes me a favor.”

 

Luke’s lips twist. “I absolutely don’t, Ben. But I’m _nice_. And I happen to give a bantha pie about your cause.”

 

_Bantha pie_ . Kid won’t even  swear . And he’s supposed to get them off this rock? 

 

“All right, then. What kind of ship are you running?” 

 

Skywalker turns his attention back to Han, and his expression turns less sour. “She’s a Corellian YT series freighter. With some modifications.”

 

Corellian, huh. Well, at least the kid knows where the good stuff comes from. The YT series isn’t exactly new, and they’re not known for winning races, but they’re fast. For a smuggling outfit, it’s not bad. Assuming the ship really is in good condition.

 

“You ever heard of the _Millenium Falcon_?”

 

“Should I have?”

 

“It’s the ship that did the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs.”

 

“Oh, is that impressive or something?” Han knows it is, but he’s not about to act starstruck. Skywalker doesn’t seem bothered, though. He shrugs.

 

“It’s an accomplishment. What it means for you is that I’ll get you to Alderaan fast, without Imperial entanglements.”

 

“Which is exactly what we’re looking for,” Kenobi says, as if Han didn’t already know that. 

 

“Okay. Perfect. When do we leave?”

 

“In the morning. We’ll get a good night’s sleep and head out.”

 

Han doubts he’ll get a good night’s sleep. They don’t have enough credits to rent a room anywhere. Temperatures get really low at night, and there are scavengers with no qualms about robbing someone in their sleep.

 

“If we could trouble you for another favor,” Kenobi says. Skywalker doesn’t look pleased, but he lets him continue. Chewbacca grunts something. “We need lodgings for the night as well. You already know about our financial situation.”

 

“Yeah.” Skywalker stretches and sighs. “Fine. You’ll be bunking in the ship during the trip anyway.” 

 

He slides from the booth. Chewbacca follows him immediately. Han and Kenobi take their cue and follow as well. Han’s struck by the smuggler’s size. He’s not  especially short for a human, but Han is tall. He’s got a few inches on him. Skywalker’s slight, too. There’s a sinewy strength to him, but Han can tell, even with the jacket, that his shoulders haven’t quite filled out yet.  Once more, he wonders how old this kid is. 

 

They head from the cantina. By design, it’s a short walk to the loading docks. Han spots the YT right away; there’s no other ship like it.

 

“There she is. The _Millenium Falcon_.” There’s pride in Skywalker’s voice as he says it, and Han can’t blame him. She’s older, but she’s a beauty. He’s clearly kept her in good shape. Even the carbon scoring and dust settled on the hull can’t hide the meticulous work that’s been done. 

 

“Beauty,” Han says.

 

Skywalker shoots him a smile, and suddenly Han’s sure he’s read him all wrong. He’d thought the kid was frosty. The disaffected cynicism of the smuggler. But this smile is genuine, and it’s on a  dimpled  face that’s accustomed to smiling often. It’s also radiantly beautiful. Han  _really_ needs to find out how old Skywalker is. 

 

Chewbacca’s the one that goes to pull the loading ramp down so they can board. The inside of the ship is much like the outside, only cleaner. There isn’t even Wookiee hair clinging to anything.  Skywalker leads the way in, through to a common area. There’s a bench seat that curves around a table with a dejarik set hooked up to it, a dartboard on the wall, and a holoprojector. These two know how to relax, it seems. 

 

“Make yourself at home. Mi casa es su casa,” Skywalker says in Huttese. Han only just catches the words. He never studied Huttese, just spent enough time on Tatooine to pick up the necessities. “Oh,” Skywalker adds “but don’t touch anything.” He grins, and Han finds himself grinning back.

 

Skywalker gestures down a corridor. “ You can sleep in the storage chambers down that way.  I keep sleeping bags and stuff in there for passengers. It’s nothing glamorous, but you won’t freeze or anything.” 

 

Han’s slept in worse places. He’s not about to complain, especially when he doesn’t even know what they owe Skywalker and Chewbacca.

 

Skywalker points down another corridor. “Refresher’s down there. You can use the shower, but sonic only. Don’t want to use up all the water until we reach a better planet to fill up on.”

 

Fuck, Han’s craving a water shower. But he understands that rule, and nods. Water’s so expensive out here. Best to bring in what you need and leave without having to purchase any.  In any case, he’ll probably take Skywalker up on the offer of a sonic shower. He hasn’t had a chance in a few days. It doesn’t matter much on the ranch, where everything and everyone smells like dust.  Now, in an enclosed environment, he probably reeks. 

 

Han and Kenobi take their packs to the store rooms Skywalker pointed them to and stow their packs there. They return to the main hold,  where the two pilots and the droids have made themselves comfortable. C-3PO has sat down and R2D2 is soldering parts of his arm back on. It still hangs uselessly. Chewbacca reclines in a worn chair. It’s the only thing that seems to have hair stuck to it; it’s clearly the Wookiee’s favorite. He scrolls through a datapad. 

 

Skywalker stands at a little kitchen station. It looks to Han like he’s mixing drinks. Han sidles over to him.

 

“Got anything good?”

 

Skywalker glances up at him and raises an eyebrow. He moves his hands so that Han can see what he’s doing. Rehydrating ration packs and portioning out gelled liquid. It looks less than appetizing, even to Han’s empty stomach.

 

“Not really. I’ve got blue milk if you prefer that.”

 

Han makes a face. “Sorry. Just looked like you were...never mind.”

 

Skywalker offers him a bowl of grain mush. “I don’t give out the good stuff on charity.”

 

Han takes the bowl with a mumbled thanks. He finds a seat in a corner. He suddenly feels very alone, despite being in a room cramped with sentients. Kenobi is hardly his friend. Even the droids he’d risked so much for are strangers. They’re part of some other world, only stumbling into his. And now he’s stumbled into theirs. He’s not sure what to think of Skywalker.

 

He doesn’t have a lot of friends back in Anchorhead, but at least he’d had a rapport with the locals. He knows how to talk in a bar, how to commiserate with the other farmhands. Knows who to talk shit about and who to keep his mouth shut about. He doesn’t have any ready quips about this situation.

 

Skywalker passes around the rest of the rations. Kenobi and Chewbacca thank him and dig in. Han follows suit. It’s better than he’d expected. Flavorful, where this kind of thing is usually bland. He wonders if Skywalker has spent a lot of time on Tatooine. The first time Han had traditional Tatooinian cuisine, his whole face had gone red and he’d coughed so hard he’d just about hacked it all back up. The Larses had had a good laugh before giving him some blue milk to cut the heat. The food is about the one thing that can’t be described as “beige.”

 

“So,” Han says after a few minutes of near-silence. “How do you know each other?” He gestures between Kenobi and Skywalker with his spoon. 

 

The two men exchange glances. Han immediately regrets asking. He can just see the long story written on their faces. He’s not sure he wants to know.  Their silence lasts too long. Stars, it’s not just a long story, it’s one full of secrets. Han raises his hands in surrender. 

 

“It’s none of my business. Sorry I asked.”

 

Skywalker chuckles, but Han can tell it isn’t genuine. “It’s fine. It’s just a long story, is all.”

 

Yeah. Just like he’d thought.  He considers asking how Skywalker and the Wookiee teamed up, but doesn’t want to risk another awkward rejection. Apparently this kid has more baggage than he looks like he could carry. He turns silently turns back to his mush. 

 

S tars, he wants a drink. He misses the bottles he’s stowed away back in his hut on the Lars ranch. He has all of his necessities, but he couldn’t justify packing things like that. He finishes his dinner and sets the bowl down. “Think I might to back to the cantina.” 

 

“Oh?” Skywalker is looking at him, but Han never saw his head turn. Has he been watching him this whole time?

 

“Yeah. Could use a drink.”

 

“Best not to go alone,” Kenobi says. “Especially after dark.”

 

Han rolls his eyes. “I’ll be fine. I can handle myself.” He knows that Kenobi is right. Out on the ranch, you can see trouble coming from miles away. But here in Mos Eisley, trouble can sneak up on you from anywhere.  But he’s got his truncheon, and he really doesn’t want to beg someone to come with him. 

 

Han gets up to slip his poncho back on to ward off the chill of the night. Kenobi says something else, insisting that he not go, and is intoxication really worth it? As he checks to make sure his truncheon is in its place on his belt, he hears Skywalker’s voice.

 

“A drink sounds nice.”

 

Han flashes him a quick smile. “Let’s go, then.” Whether or not Skywalker actually wants a drink, he appreciates that he phrased it that way. He doesn’t want to think of this twink as his protection.

 

“Chewie, hold down the fort.”

 

The Wookiee rumbles a response.

 

“Yes, _mom_.” 

 

The two of them head back down the ramp.  They don’t talk as they start to head towards the cantina. The darkness of the desert is total, but there are weak lights dimly illuminating the streets of Mos Eisley. Han can see shadows moving, just out of sight. Illicit deals, too black market to even be done in the cantina. And thieves, waiting for their opportunities to strike. Skywalker walks with what looks at first to be easy confidence, but Han can recognize the tension in it. He’s not unaware of the danger here. His hand is close to his blaster. Han’s own hand itches to rest on the handle of his truncheon. But that’d be too obvious, so he just hooks his thumb in his belt, ready if need be. 

 

S kywalker’s shoulder bumps Han’s upper arm, which is when he realizes how close they are. It makes sense. You want to advertise the fact that you’re not alone. Groups make a more difficult target. 

 

The cantina’s livened up a little when they get there. The evening crowd is making way for the night clientele. There are pockets of humans and aliens relaxing after a long day in the sun, but others are here to drink and have as good a time as they can.

 

They find space at the bar and push in.  Han waves the bartender over. The man is grim, and only grunts as Han orders a whiskey. Skywalker gets the closest thing to a cocktail around here – liq ueu or and blue milk. Han raises an eyebrow at him. 

 

“Not much of a drinker, huh?”

 

“What’s wrong with a drunken bantha?”

 

“It’s sweet. You can barely even taste the booze.”

 

“You and I both know the booze here isn’t worth tasting.”

 

Han can’t argue with that.  The bartender slides their drinks across the less than clean bar-top. Han raises his glass to Skywalker before drinking. Skywalker’s lip quirks up at one side and he raises his glass in turn. Han can see the hint of a dimple before they both drink. 

 

It really is foul, but Han’s had worse. Much worse. He’s going for a light buzz, and this’ll do the trick. “So,” he says “what got you into this line of work, anyway? No offense, but you don’t seem like the smuggling type.”

 

Skywalker laughs. “Well...no offense, but I didn’t want to turn out like you.”

 

Han gives him a scandalized look. He fakes amusement, and outrage to cover that. Beneath it all, a little hurt and confusion.

 

“I just mean I didn’t want to get stuck in one place, doing boring work day in and day out. I wanted to see the stars, you know? But I wasn’t about to join the Imperial fleet.” He watches Han over the rim of his tumbler as he drinks.

 

“What makes you think I’ve always stayed in one place?”

 

Skywalker shrugs. “Fair enough. But you look the part of a farmer. If a bit more handsome than they usually come.”

 

_So he thinks I’m handsome._

 

“I have been for a few years. But before that I moved around.”

 

“A drifter, eh?”

 

“You could say that.”

 

“Where’d you start out?”

 

Han considers his answer. It’s not like it’s a big secret, but he doesn’t want to lay all his cards on the table yet, either. “I barely remember. My first memories are on a ship.” It’s a half-truth.

 

“You have people?”

 

Han snorts. “What do you think?”

 

“You know, if you don’t tell me anything, this conversation isn’t going to go very far.”

 

“I could say the same to you.”

 

“Being mysterious is in the job description.” 

 

“So what are you normally moving around? Spice?”

 

Skywalker hums. “And other things.”

 

“Let me guess. Those other things are also a mystery.”

 

Skywalker smirks at him over the rim of his glass. “For now, yeah. At the moment, all you need to know is that you’re currently in the category of ‘other things.’”

 

“So passengers are also normal cargo?”

 

“Mm. Not as often as inorganic matter.”

 

Han tilts his head. He leans against the bar and studies Skywalker. “So what can I ask you about that you won’t deflect?”

 

Skywalker chuckles. “Right now? There isn’t much. Maybe by the time we get to Alderaan I’ll trust you more. For now, I’ll just enjoy watching you squirm and keep trying.”

 

Well that’s just not fair. Han rolls his eyes and downs the rest of his whiskey. He gestures the barkeep over for another one. As soon as it’s in his hand, he stands up. Skywalker gives him an amused look.

 

“Going to find better conversation?”

 

“Maybe.”

 

“Good luck,” Skywalker says, skeptical. “Be back at the ship by midnight if you don’t want to get locked out.”

 

Han turns his back on him. Skywalker’s an annoying little prick. Friendly until he’s not. Han doesn’t quite know how to deal with him. So he doesn’t. He heads away from the bar, scanning the cantina for a likely table. Sure enough, there’s a game of sabacc going. He doesn’t have much, but it’s enough for a buy-in. Maybe his luck will change.

 

 

Han fancies he knows when to call it quits. He hasn’t actually been paying attention to the time, so he might well be locked out of the  _Millenium Falcon_ . But he’s on a winning streak, and he’s in no hurry to lose what he’s won. It isn’t much, but every little bit helps in his position. He collects the credits,  tosses his cards to the table, and heads for the door. 

 

He’s had more to drink, but by now it’s wearing off. He’s sobering up. He hopes the sway in his step isn’t too obvious. It makes one an easy target in these alleyways. Especially if anyone from the cantina decides to follow him, knowing he’s carrying money.

 

Just in case, he extends his truncheon and carries it at his side as he walks back to the docking bay. Nothing happens, except that his heart rate is up.

 

Chewbacca’s outside, leaning on the ramp. Something glows in his paw; a spice cig. When he catches sight – or possibly sound – of Han, he takes a last drag on it. He growls low. Han doesn’t understand all of it, but the meaning is there.  _You’re late_ . 

 

“Thanks for leaving a light on, man.”

 

Han mounts the ramp to head inside. Chewbacca’s right behind him. He carries the cloying scent of spice smoke with him. The ramp closes and latches shut behind them. Han turns to say something to Chewie, but the Wookiee is already turning away, heading to the co-pilot’s quarters. He really had been waiting up for Han, and wasn’t about to wait a second longer. Still, it was nice that he’d done that.

 

“Thanks again. G’night.” Han says after him. The groan he gets in response might actually be the sound of a tired Wookiee finally stretching out in bed, and not a reply. The rest of the ship is quiet, only the climate systems and plumbing humming away. He’s sure Kenobi and Skywalker are already tucked in. He’d seen Skywalker leave the bar halfway through his second sabacc hand. 

 

He takes quiet steps through the corridors of the ship. It’s not difficult to remember the way to the storage holds that are serving as quarters for Kenobi and himself. It takes him past a maintenance closet and then the captain’s quarters. He’s fully intending to just walk right by, as silently as possible, and snuggle up in the rough blankets Skywalker has on hand.

 

But that’s before he hears a voice.

 

It’s faint through the thick metal door, but it’s undoubtedly Skywalker. He can’t be talking to Chewbacca. Maybe a holo comm?

 

“I’m doing you a kindness, Ben. Can’t you accept it without bringing all this ancient history up?”

 

Nope. He’s talking to Kenobi. Han knows he should just keep going and leave them to their conversation. But who’s he kidding? He’s too curious. He leans a little closer to the door, ear straining.

 

Kenobi chuckles. “Ancient history? It hasn’t been that long, my boy.”

 

“Long enough. I’ve put it behind me.”

 

“You still ought to have your inheritance.”

 

“It’s not an inheritance, it’s a debt.”

 

“Responsibility, Luke. You can’t run from it forever.”

 

“It isn’t my responsibility. Just because you think I have some birth-right-”

 

“No one else can take this burden.”

 

“No, stop. Stop it. I’m not a kid any more. You can’t pretend I’m special so I’ll be your perfect little warrior.”

 

“You are special, Luke. You know it. You _feel_ it.” 

 

“Whatever. I shouldn’t have agreed to this. I should have walked out of there the moment I saw you.”

 

“We both know you wouldn’t do that.”

 

“I’m not my father. And I’m not your son.” 

 

There’s a silence. Han can’t make out what’s happening inside. His muscles tense, ready to spring away from the door if it suddenly opens. But it doesn’t.

 

“Just let me get some sleep, Ben,” Skywalker says quietly. Han can barely hear it. “We have a long day tomorrow.” 

 

“You know you can’t avoid this forever.”

 

“We’ll talk later.”

 

Han can hear footsteps. It’s time to go. He hurries away from the door. He slips into the storage hold just as he hears the door to the captain’s quarters open. There’s silence, a soft clunk of a heavy object, and Kenobi’s quiet murmur of “Good night, Luke.” Kenobi’s muffled footsteps begin down the corridor.

 

“Hey, don’t leave this-”

 

Skywalker’s voice fades as Kenobi closes himself into the compartment next to Han’s. There’s a whispered curse, and the door down the hall slides shut again.

 

Quietly, Han goes to laying out a pad and blankets. His mind is racing. He can’t tell what it all means. Obviously, the history between Kenobi and Skywalker goes deeper than he thought.  The curiosity burns in him, but there’s a good chance he’ll never know what’s going on between those two. 

 

He strips to the bare essentials, truncheon within reach. The blankets are hardly soft, but they’ll keep out the chill of the night. There’s a subtle vibration that runs through the floor and walls of the ship, her internal systems whirring away. It lulls him. It’s been a long day, after all. He finds his eyelids drooping faster than he’d expected, despite how much his mind is racing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally the fun part; getting my boys in the same room together. I still haven't decided whether Luke's still 19. The age difference weirds me out, and it's an AU so I can screw with chronology, but I also don't want to confuse anyone (or mess up my own timeline). We'll see. 
> 
> Also I'm only one chapter ahead in my buffer, and I'm not really re-reading as I continue, so if I fuck up continuity please let me know
> 
> I'm working to keep everybody in character, but in this universe, Luke's had a different upbringing. There are some aspects to his personality that are different because of his profession and background. I want to keep him (and everybody else) the same at their core, but the dialogue especially is going to deviate from canon Luke.


	4. The Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leaving Tatooine proves harder than they'd thought.

Han’s eyes snap open to the sound of shouting and an echoing Wookiee bellow. He shoots up, not even registering the ache in his back. Without even thinking, he whips out his truncheon and extends it. He can hear boots against grated flooring. He grabs his pants, belt, and boots.

 

He stumbles down the hallway towards the cockpit, still stomping to settle his foot in his boot. Fortunately, he doesn’t find rival smugglers or Imperial grunts storming the ship. What he finds is Chewbacca and Skywalker hurriedly moving around, making checks. It’s clear they’re making preparations for liftoff.

 

“The hells’ going on? I thought we weren’t leaving until morning.”

 

“Change of plans!” Skywalker snaps. He doesn’t even grace Han with a look.

 

“I can see that.”

 

“Are you gonna stand there, or are you gonna help?”

 

“Uh...”

 

Chewbacca roars and shoves him out of the way as he heads for a switchboard. Han stumbles back. He starts to snap his truncheon closed.

 

“Might want to keep that out,” Skywalker says, finally pausing to glance at him. “The bucketheads have just arrived. Sounds like someone at the cantina saw your droids, and the Imperials are after them. They’ve put immobilizers on our upward thrusters. It’s just a matter of minutes before they break down my door to get in.”

 

“Wh-...” Han shakes himself. “If that’s the case, how are we supposed to leave?”

 

“Someone’s going to go out a service hatch, take out the ‘troopers standing guard, and remove the immobilizers.”

 

Han waits for Skywalker to elaborate. Skywalker just keeps looking at him.

 

“Wait. You expect that to be me?”

 

Skywalker shrugs. “You’re kind of the only one available. I need to be here to pilot, Chewbacca won’t fit through the duct, and, well. You don’t expect a droid or an old man to do it, do you?”

 

“The old man can hold himself in a fight. I’ve seen it.”

 

Skywalker acts as if he doesn’t hear. “If you want to leave without getting shot or arrested, you’re going out there. Most of the stormtroopers are at the front of the ship, so you’ll be facing three at the most.”

 

“I didn’t sign up for-”

 

“ _Stars_ , we don’t have time for this!” Skywalker hurries across to Han and starts to shove him, presumably towards the rear service hatch. “Your choice is to do this and maybe live, or refuse and get arrested, probably executed. And I for one do not want to find out how that scenario goes.”

 

Han can’t argue with that.

 

“You don’t even know if I know how to get the immobilizers off,” he says as Skywalker steers him through the ship, past the hyperdrive.

 

“Just a risk I’ll have to take. Besides, it’s not that different from the tech moisture farmers use. I’m sure you can figure it out.”

 

Han isn’t about to counter that he’s not smart enough to do it.

 

The hatch is a small square of metal that Skywalker easily removes from the wall. It’s just above chest height. The chute it leads into is narrow. Almost too narrow for Han. But he knows he can make it through. He takes a deep breath and grips his truncheon tighter.

 

“Go through as quietly as you can. The outside hatch just lifts up on a hinge. Looks like any other plating panel from the outside.”

 

Han nods. “Give me a boost?”

 

Skywalker nods back, but pauses. He reaches for something at his belt. “Take this. In case that thing isn’t enough.” He gestures towards Han’s truncheon. Han frowns at the cylinder of metal in Skywalker’s hands. When he takes it, it’s heavier than he expects. “What-” He holds it up to look at it. There’s some kind of emitter at one end. His thumb brushes a button on the side. Some kind of blaster? Skywalker’s hand shoots out and grabs his wrist, as if he’d sensed Han’s urge to press the button.

 

“Don’t turn it on here! Especially not pointing at yourself, idiot.”

 

“I wasn’t- what is it?”

 

Skywalker swallows, as if it’s just occurring to him that Han might not have instantly recognized this strange item. “It’s a lightsaber.”

 

“A...come off it. Seriously?”

 

“Yes, seriously. Look, we can do this later. Right now, I need you out there.” Skywalker gives Han a hard look and points down the service chute. He pushes the lightsaber further into Han’s grip. “Just use it the same way you use that-” he gestures to Han’s truncheon “-only with more care. It’ll do a lot more damage. Got it?”

 

Han feels breathless. But he nods.

 

Skywalker studies his face for just a moment, nods, and bends down to give Han a boost with his cupped hands.

 

Han tucks both the truncheon and the lightsaber into his belt. He grabs the lip of the chute and steps into Skywalker’s hands. The boost works, but he gets stuck halfway in. He grunts, scrambling to try to get all the way into the duct.

 

“Sorry about this,” he hears Skywalker say, voice echoing strangely from outside. And then two hands are pressed firmly onto his ass, pushing him in. He does a kind of swimming kick, taking care not to catch Skywalker with his foot, and he’s all the way in. He decides that if he survives this ordeal, he can examine just how the smugglers hands on him felt. And whether he’d detected a note of enjoyment in his voice.

 

It’s a tight fit, but Han manages to wriggle his way through to the outer hatch. He reaches it, one hand on the hinged panel, the other on the truncheon. He’s not going for the strange new weapon right away. He listens. He can hear footsteps outside, plastoid armor clacking. Two, he guesses. But he mentally prepares for three. Just in case.

 

He can’t see a way to jump out of the ship without being noticed, so he’s going to have to be ready to fight the moment his feet hit the ground, if not before. Without an idea of where his opponents are positioned. He inhales deeply, and lets it out slow.

 

His muscles bunch and he braces himself, and then he pushes through the panel, truncheon extending as he’s midair.

 

He strikes the nearest one as he lands. His knees complain, but he doesn’t have time to pay them any mind. The trooper’s helmet flies off and he collapses to the ground with a cry of pain. It’s a lucky hit. It leaves three stormtroopers to whirl around and raise their blasters. The gray light of pre-dawn illuminates their white armor, but it’s still too dark to make out the black bodysuits underneath. It makes them look like insectoid ghosts, plates hovering in the still-cool air.

 

Now that the element of surprise is lost, Han’s only advantage is that ‘trooper blasters aren’t really suited to close-range. They’re for, well, _storming_. The rifles aren’t so easy to aim when your opponent is within a few feet of you and closing that distance fast while swinging a weapon. They probably can’t see very well, either.

 

Han can’t let himself think. If he hesitates, for even a fraction of a moment, he’s done for. He hears blaster shots, sees the red flashes, but since none of them seem to connect with him, he forges ahead. He aims for necks. There’s no sense hitting a helmet that’ll dull his blow. He doesn’t care if he kills them or incapacitates them, so long as they’re down. He spins in place, reaching out with the truncheon and slashing it with all his might. When his weapon connects with armor, with flesh, he follows through. There are dark streaks in the sand, grunts of pain, blaster shots firing every which way.

 

Pain lances through his hand and he yelps. He can’t hold on as his truncheon goes flying. Fuck.

 

“Fuck!”

 

He looks around wildly, but he can’t see his weapon anywhere. He doesn’t have time to look any further. A blaster shot comes dangerously close to his head, and he just manages to duck out of the way. His mind reels. Is he about to die? This isn’t exactly how he wanted to go.

 

A weight at his hip draws his attention. He’s not unarmed. Skywalker had made sure of it.

 

Han stays low, dodging blaster shots as he pulls the heavy hilt from his belt. He feels along the ridged metal until he finds the button that brings it to life. There’s almost a kickback to it as a brilliant blue blade of light extends from the emitter. It illuminates the whole area in a pale glow. It hums, both menacing and reassuring. To Han, at least.

 

There’s no time to admire or wonder. He has just a moment, the three standing stormtroopers stunned at the sight of a real live lightsaber, to act.

 

The weight of it is different than what he’s used to, but he keeps his grip on it. He swings, just like he’d swung his truncheon. A moment later, one of the stormtrooper’s blasters is on the ground. His arm is still attached to it. The rest of the stormtrooper follows it down, his moans of pain muffled by his helmet.

 

Han laughs out loud. He can’t help it. This is a strange weapon, and he’s not sure he really has the right to wield it. But whether or not he has the right, it’s his in this fight. And he’s going to win. Hastily trained Imperial drones have little chance against a desperate hick with a laser sword.

 

He swings again, whirling it with a little more finesse than before. The ‘trooper he aims at manages to dodge once, but not a second time. The smell of melting plastoid fills Han’s nose. A slash appears in his enemy’s chest-plate, fiery orange and then dull gray. Beneath it, dark red. The stormtrooper goes down. Han doesn’t pause to see if he’s still breathing.

 

He turns on the final ‘trooper. The man stumbles back, armor rattling. He raises his blaster, but he’s visibly shaking. He fires. Han doesn’t even have to dodge. They have shoddy aim at the best of times. The corner of Han’s mouth twitches up. It’s not often he feels...powerful. Confident. But right now, he knows he’s got this. He steps forward, does an experimental little twirl of the blade of light.

 

He doesn’t have to follow through on the threat. The stormtrooper drops his blaster, backs away with his hands up, and then turns tail and runs. Han snorts. Doesn’t the kid know that deserters will get worse from their officers than he could ever give?

 

He stands still and raises the blade up. Now that the threat is neutralized, he can appreciate the beauty of this weapon. He feels the heat of it against his cheek as he holds it closer. He hadn’t exactly done a clean job, but with the right training, this could be a tool of precision. It hums, a language all its own. He can feel it pulse through his hands. It sort of feels...right. In a way he can’t describe. It’s got to be an illusion, brought on by adrenaline and victory. This isn’t his. It belongs to some noble warrior, someone not at all like Han Solo.

 

He presses the switch again and just like that, the blade disappears. Still warm, he clips it back to his belt.

 

He turns back to the ship. His eyes are still adjusting now that the light of the ‘saber is gone. He feels a chill against his skin and realizes that he’s still shirtless. And sweaty. He doesn’t look down at himself. There’s still pain in his shoulder and side, and he doesn’t want to know how bad it is, not until he’s safely back on the ship.

 

Even in the dark, it’s easy to see the immobilizers bolted crudely to the thrusters. They stand out like a barnacle on a Mon Calamari. Han grimaces. He hates seeing a good ship disrespected like this. There won’t be time to fix the damage, either. As long as she’s space-worthy, it’ll have to do until they get somewhere safer.

 

He steps up to one of the two immobilization devices, pulling a multitool from his belt. Metal grinds against metal. He grits his teeth as he wrenches a bolt free. The heavy device starts to drift towards the ground, bending a dent into the hull of the ship where the other side’s still bolted. Han does his best to hold it in place until he can get the other bolt off. He steps back, letting the immobilizer fall to the ground with a satisfying crunch.

 

Han makes short work of the other immobilizer. As soon as the ship is free of them both, he has to dart back. The thrusters burst to life, warming up for takeoff.

 

“Ha _ha_!”

 

“Han!”

 

“Huh?”

 

Skywalker’s voice comes through the vent Han had crawled through.

 

“We’re not grounded any more, so you must still be alive. Get the hells on board if you want a ride out of here.”

 

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Han says. He hears helmet-muffled shouts coming around the side of the ships. The stormtroopers from the front end must have heard the commotion, or are wondering why their comrades haven’t responded. He doesn’t have the benefit of a boost back into the chute, but fear helps him scramble his way up, as well as an improvised foothold on the side of the ship. He grunts and wiggles until he gets inside. He uses the heel of his boot to close the panel behind him. From there, all he has to do is worm his way back.

 

He drops to the floor and races down the corridor towards the sounds of sharp human words and Wookiee calls. They lead him to the cockpit, where Skywalker is in the Captain’s chair. Chewbacca is next to him in the copilot’s position. They’re both madly flipping switches and mashing buttons. Kenobi, looking grave, watches with his hand on the back of Skywalker’s chair. The two droids are crowded in with them, leaving little space for Han to join them.

 

“All aboard?” Skywalker asks, barely glancing over his shoulder.

 

“Let’s get her off the ground,” Han answers.

 

Skywalker nods. He pushes a lever forward. The whole ship rumbles and then lurches.

 

“We haven’t much time. The reinforcements are on their way.”

 

“I know that, Ben.”

 

To Han’s relief, the ship begins to rise. It’s no longer tethered to anything, so the stormtroopers below can only stare in dismay. They aren’t out of the woods yet – there’s no doubt an Imperial ship orbiting somewhere above – but at least the bucketheads are no longer a threat. Han grabs blindly for a hand-hold; it’s a turbulent takeoff. His hand ends up on Skywalker’s shoulder. He considers apologizing and taking his hand away, but decides to lean into it. It’s a tense moment anyway. The pilot doesn’t seem to notice.

 

They watch as the land sinks away from them, Mos Eisley becoming an insect hive on the surface of a dark, desolate planet. The suns are just peeking over the horizon, getting more intense as the _Falcon_ rises. They fly steadily, the ship doing the work for the time being, and Skywalker and Chewbacca begin to plug in coordinates.

 

“We’ll jump into hyperspace as soon as we’re clear of the atmosphere. Hopefully we don’t run into any Imperial ships before that.”

 

“Don’t jinx it,” Han mutters.

 

Skywalker shoots him a look that he can’t interpret.

 

Han takes a step back, bumping lightly into C3PO. Threepio blusters, but Han doesn’t apologize. “Think I better go put a shirt on.”

 

“I mean. If you _want_.”

 

“Sorry to cut the show short. Maybe another time, when you can really appreciate it.”

 

Skywalker clears his throat. He stares straight ahead into space. Han smirks and turns to leave the cockpit.

 

He’s just adjusting his belt over his tunic when the ship lurches with a sudden turn. “Oh, what in the hells...” At least he’s dressed this time. He dashes out of the storage hold and back to the cockpit.

 

“What is it now?”

 

“We’ve got company.”

 

The ship veers again as Skywalker dodges something. Han sees the residual flash of blaster fire. He doesn’t have to ask who it is.

 

“What kind of ship?”

 

“Not big, thank the stars. Must be whatever freighter brought the stormtroopers. Enough for a small battalion.”

 

“So not much of a threat, right?”

 

Skywalker doesn’t answer right away. Han presses his lips in a thin line.

 

“You can get past them, _right_?”

 

Skywalker whirls around, fixing his icy blue eyes on Han. “You know how to shoot?”

 

“Uh...yeah, sure.”

 

“Good. Here.” He tosses Han a headset. “Get to the gunner station. We’re going to fight our way out.” He points and his expression leaves no room for argument.

 

Han’s adrenaline is still fresh in his blood. He shoves the headset on and turns from the cockpit. The gunner station is easy to find. He gets into the seat, only grunting a little as it swivels into position. He hasn’t shot from one like this before. But he’s sure he can figure it out. He takes hold of the triggers. The seat continues to swivel and rock. He wrestles it and the triggers into position, seeking out the enemy ship.

 

“You ready yet?” Skywalker’s voice crackles through the headset.

 

“Yep. Just looking for my target.”

 

“Hold tight just a second. And don’t throw up on anything important.”

 

A moment later, Han understands what he meant. They go careening, seemingly out of control. He can see the cannon fire and knows that Skywalker is avoiding the blasts while trying to help Han aim. Han gets sight of the other vessel. It’s only a little larger than the _Falcon_. The same size engines, even, just more passenger space for troops. Han grits his teeth, flexes his arms, and shoots. It feels good to watch the bolt blast from the turret and hit the other ship.

 

“Ha ha!”

 

“Don’t get too excited,” Skywalker says in his ear. “You didn’t hit anything essential.”

 

“Not yet.”

 

“Just don’t get too cocky.”

 

Han snorts. He’s already feeling the rush. He tightens his grip to aim again. But suddenly, there’s more than one target.

 

“Ah, kriff.”

 

“What? What is i-”

 

Skywalker’s voice trails off; he’s seen the two TIE fighters that have begun towards them. They fly like gnats, buzzing quickly in and out of range. Han hears Skywalker curse as their freighter rocks with a direct hit.

 

“What are you waiting for?! Start shooting, Han!”

 

Han’s ear rings with Skywalker’s shout. Ridiculously, he wastes a precious second wondering whether he and the pilot are on first name terms. The scream of a TIE whizzing by snaps him out of it. He doesn’t shoot right away, not wanting to waste ammunition, but he concentrates once more.

 

The cannon rocks his whole body when he shoots again. His aim is true. One of the two buzzards goes spinning away, a side panel hemorrhaging shrapnel and smoke. He doesn’t bother to watch it fall out of view. He’s already wrangling the cannon, training the scope on the second TIE.

 

He bites his lower lip until it stings. He waits, the TIE dangerously close and spraying an array of blaster bolts. Some of them hit, but they’re not terribly powerful. He’s distantly aware of Skywalker shouting in his ear, but he ignores it. The pilot’s steering speaks louder than his words, anyway. Whether he means to or not, he’s helping Han aim perfectly. With a hiss through his teeth, Han fires.

 

It hits dead-center. There isn’t enough left of the TIE to go careening off into space.

 

“HA! Well done, Solo!” Skywalker calls.

 

“Let’s bust up this bigger one and get the hells out of here.”

 

“Get ready to fire. I’m going to turn us around so you can get a clear shot.”

 

“You got it, cap.”

 

Han’s grinning. They’re in mortal peril, yes, but things are looking up. And they seem to work well as a team. Maybe it’s just the adrenaline in his system getting him so excited.

 

The Imperial freighter comes back into view.

 

Han rides the high of his previous hits. His shooting is a little more sloppy, but it still counts. The pursuing vessel rocks, pieces of its outer shell drifting away amid the smoke. He continues the onslaught until he hears Skywalker call into his hear.

 

“I think that’s enough. They’re retreating.”

 

“Do we want to let them?”

 

“I’m not a mercenary, Solo. It’s not like they know where we’re going.”

 

Almost disappointed, Han sighs. He leans back in the gunner seat and watches as they get further and further from the Imperial ship. Sure enough, it’s hanging back. They’ve assessed their losses and decided they can’t win this fight. The officers will abandon ship, taking escape pods to the surface of Tatooine to wait for their department heads to send help. The poor idiots on board...Han thinks that blowing them up might have been kinder than leaving them to flounder on a failing ship.

 

He makes it back up to the cockpit just in time to strap in for the leap into hyperspace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I love prompts, headcanons, and just general skysolo talk on my tumblr @captaindog. 
> 
> Please let me know if there are any continuity errors. My timeline gets more and more convoluted with every chapter. For reference, though, this universe's events are running about a day ahead of the canon timeline so far.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I'm on tumblr @captaindog. I especially welcome prompts and headcanons


End file.
